Scrolls
by Ashley A
Summary: a little look into LancelotGuinevere interaction. Lancelot doesn't understand Arthur's reasons for staying, and he tries to get some answers.


> Author's note:
> 
> I am still not truly satisfied with the lack of Guinivere/Lancelot interaction in the film, so here's my little scene dealing with some of it.
> 
> This also deals with Lancelot's anger and confusion at the idea that Arthur would stay behind and fight a battle that he didn't need to.
> 
> Set directly after the scene in which Bishop Germanus presents the Knights with their discharge papers.
> 
> Spoilers for everything.
> 
> Rated PG.
> 
> Copyright infringement is never intended.
> 
> Enjoy!!
> 
> The scroll in his hand feels heavy and wrong.
> 
> He sets it on the small table usually reserved for horse tack, and stands, his arms crossed, biceps bulging, every muscle and sinew in his body screaming at him to rest. He knows he will not.
> 
> He stares at the piece of parchment, so important a few days ago; now, it may as well be trash for the fire. He runs a finger over his name, so impressive in its calligraphy. What cost was too high for the right to hold this in his hand? What sacrifice was too dear to make for freedom?
> 
> Freedom. The word tastes like ashes in his mouth.
> 
> What in the name of all things holy is Arthur thinking? Why is he staying? Why would he choose this for himself? Lancelot thinks he knows the answer, but isn't saying a word until he's had a few choice moments alone with his friend. A moment that isn't driven by anger and non comprehension.
> 
> Dagonet is gone. Five of them left. Five of them holding precious pieces of paper in their hands. He isn't sure of what the other men are feeling, but he makes a guess that it isn't jovality. He's almost certain that it's the same feeling that's eating at his guts right now.
> 
> Guilt. Torn by the intense, blinding desire to leave this hell long behind him.
> 
> He's served with Arthur for fifteen long years. He had thought, he had known that the day he received his discharge, he would be on his horse within an hour, and homeward bound.
> 
> The day is here. And some niggling little feeling inside is keeping him from doing just that.
> 
> His sorrow at the loss of Dagonet is overwhelming. The man lived an honorable life, and Lancelot thinks he would have been proud of his death, sacrificing himself for the rest of them, and especially for Arthur. It's something any one of them would have done willingly.
> 
> The idea of what Dagonet had done is one of the things keeping Lancelot from leaving immediately.
> 
> The other is the notion that his best friend would take it upon himself to stay and fight an unwinable battle, defending people who have betrayed him and the ideals Arthur has built his entire life on. Lancelot does not remember a time when his dark headed friend hadn't mentioned Rome or it's grandness in the course of a day. There's also the fact that Arthur's own mother had been killed by a Woad raiding party, and Lancelot can only take a guess at the reason Arthur has conviently forgotten that.
> 
> Now the very concept that Arthur, the Arthur he's known longer and better than any man, isn't even contemplating the home he's spent the past fifteen years dreaming about, throws Lancelot into such confusion he can barely stomach the feeling of his own skin.
> 
> He bangs a fist down on the plank table, and shuts his eyes against his rage, pain and uncertainty. Three emotions he finds not pleasurable to bear at all.
> 
> He whirls suddenly, determined to seek Arthur out and uncover the truth of the situation. He knows there has got to be a way to convince the man that his choice is a foolish one, and one he doesn't deserve to face.
> 
> He strides through the now empty and silent common area, toward the hall where Arthur's quarters are. Lancelot's linen shirt and leather trousers are no match for the swirling wind and snow. A great shiver overtakes him, but he's ashamed to think it might not be just the chill in the air that causes this reaction.
> 
> He dreads confronting Arthur. He's never met a more stubborn man in his life. They are a perfect pair. He's never had a friend more dear in his life.
> 
> Trying to keep his boots from echoing on the stone floor, he reaches the door of Arthur's rooms, and hesitates. The main entryway is cracked open.
> 
> Drawing one of his swords from the sheath belted around his waist, he pushes the door the rest of the way open, steathily entering the front room. The fire crackles softly in the corner, and he can see Arthur's discarded armor and food service heaped on the small table and chair that make up most of the furnishings. Arthur is lucky to have private rooms, most of the others share bunks in a larger, common room, or in the case of Bors, stay with local citizens.
> 
> Lancelot strains his ears for any sound, not wanting to wake his friend if he is asleep. They have all had little chance of that as of late, and he would be sorely amiss if he happened to spoil what little slumber Arthur can get.
> 
> He hears murmuring voices, and recognizes Arthur's, who is speaking too softly for Lancelot to hear exactly what he is saying. He resheathes his sword, stepping forward to part the curtains that separate the front room from the sleeping area, when he hears a lighter, feminine voice answer Arthur back. He stops dead in his tracks when he realizes who it is with his friend.
> 
> A sick feeling twists his insides like rope, the answer he had come to get suddenly granted to him.
> 
> He knows it's not the only reason, but he's certain it plays a large part.
> 
> Lancelot plays the cad. He's a lover and a fighter. He's known as a great ladies man, popular with all, and never lacking in company.
> 
> But since the moment he laid eyes on her, locked in that pitful tiny dungeon, his heart had been lost to Guinevere, and he had had eyes for no other since. He had thought she might have returned some of his affection, given the flirting nature of their conversations, and the glances she had given him.
> 
> He sees now where her affection has gone.
> 
> In his heart of hearts he's not truly surprised. There is no other in the wide world like Arthur Castus, and he can't say he blames her for being swept up by the spectacle.
> 
> He sighs then, a resigned noise that sounds in the small room, boucing off the stone walls.
> 
> "Who is it?" Arthur's voice comes from the other side of the curtain, rumbly and heavy with sleep.
> 
> Lancelot opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it.
> 
> He turns and exits as quietly as he had come.
> 
> He sits himself on one of the brick blocks in the main yard, resting his chin in his hand.
> 
> His course is set for the morning. He will journey for Sarmatia with the others, and he will leave his leader and friend behind to his own fate.
> 
> The snowfall has let up some, but the sticky flakes still cling to his hair and eyelashes, making it difficult to focus on any one thing.
> 
> "Lancelot? What are you doing, brother?"
> 
> Lancelot laces and unlaces his fingers, not sure how to answer.
> 
> "Enjoying one last night on this godforsaken island?" he quieries at last. A soft breath escapes his lips.
> 
> "To be truthful, Arthur, I am honestly not sure," he tells the other man, who has come into the yard, dressed hastily in trousers, shirt and heavy cloak. He takes a seat next to Lancelot, wrapping himself up in the coarse wool.
> 
> "Are you not uncomfortable? It is not pleasant weather we are experiencing," Arthur says, a wry smile on his lips. Lancelot resists the sudden swell of ire that rises up in him, loyalty to Arthur and trust in him the only things that keep the younger knight from screaming his rage and frustration at his friend.
> 
> "I am as comfortable as I am on any night spent here. Which is to say I am grateful to have a bed that isn't a tree root, and food that hasn't been caught and cooked by my own hands."
> 
> "Have you been to the wall? The Saxons are almost too quiet for my liking," Arthur speaks, turning to face Lancelot.
> 
> This gives the other man an opening to speak some of his mind.
> 
> "Arthur, what in the world are you doing? Why do you choose a fight that is no longer yours? One that was never yours to begin with? You do not owe this land or these people anything. We have our release. We can do whatever we choose to do. The Woads desire to have their country back, and I for one am through risking my life for a place that I have no loyalty to. You know all of us only did what we had to do for you, Arthur. For no other reason."
> 
> Arthur drops his head, his eyes closing.
> 
> "I have made my decision, Lancelot. I am a warrior. This is my purpose. It is my duty, and my life's work. If I am to die in battle, then God willing, I will have an honorable death. I cannot abandon my…this land to heathens who kill all that they see."
> 
> "That is the only reason?" Lancelot can't help but ask. Arthur glances up at him sharply.
> 
> "That is the only reason I need," he states, anger and sorrow dripping from his words. "I made a promise to you knights. I gave you the word of Arthur Castus, and by God I shall honor it. You have your freedom. Take it. We have discussed this matter, Lancelot, and you know my answer. Please, for the sake of our friendship, don't make me regret it." Lancelot smiles grimly at Arthur's repetition of his own plea.
> 
> "We have scrolls. Pieces of paper. What freedom is that without freedom in our hearts? Now that the day is here, after all that's happened…I don't know if I can readily leave," Lancelot says, his voice dropping to a whisper at the last. Arthur gazes on his friend, the ever present combination of regret and responsibility heavy in his eyes.
> 
> "You can. You all can, with my blessings, my respect, and my eternal constancy. You all have waited fifteen long and arduous years for this reward, Lancelot. If you don't take it, you shall have to face my wrath, and trust me when I say that is not something you want to do," he answers, his tone light, but the other man knows he is deadly serious.
> 
> A soft footfall is heard behind the two men, and they both rise, Guinevere entering the yard, approaching them. Lancelot cannot help but notice the look that passes between Arthur and the young woman, and he cannot help the surge of jealousy that eats at his heart. He hates the feeling, and turns his face into the wind, his mop of hair blowing straight up off his forehead.
> 
> "I must be insane to be out in this bleak night when I could be inside. My lady, if you will excuse me," Lancelot says finally, his voice steady and even, not betraying the wealth of feelings working their way through him.
> 
> "Of course, if that is what you wish, but I did not intend to interrupt you," she says, somewhat puzzled. Arthur takes her arm, pulling her slightly closer to him, sheltering her body with his from the strong wind that hits at them.
> 
> "No, lady, we are finished here," Lancelot says, looking at Arthur a moment, wishing he could say a few things more. He dares not, for fear of irrationality taking over. A soldier first, a man second. Always.
> 
> "Sleep well, my friend," Arthur tells him, placing his hand on Lancelot's neck briefly, in a gesture of goodwill. He knows they will not say farewell in the morning.
> 
> "Arthur, I…" the knight starts. He looks up at the stars, and gives up. "You as well."
> 
> He walks quickly away, telling himself the wetness in his eyes is due to the high wind. He doesn't think of the loss of his closest friend, or the potential love he could have had.
> 
> Arthur watches him go, troubled and concerned by Lancelot's uncharacteristicly stoic behaviour. He's never met anyone as stubborn as himself, and for Lancelot to acquiesce so suddenly…he shakes his head.
> 
> "Arthur, are you all right?" Guinevere asks, and he nods.
> 
> "What tomorrow brings, we cannot know," he murmurs softly, echoing her words of earlier.
> 
> She leads him from the snow filled yard, and back to his quarters, where the sound of Saxon drums is drowned out by heavy wood and a healthy dose of denial.
> 
> In the stables, Lancelot stares at the parchment scroll again, no closer to a satisfying answer than he had been before.
> 
> He tucks the roll of paper into his saddle bag finally, and lays down agains his tack, the sound of horses and animals shifting rhythmically quieting his racing mind.
> 
> He closes his eyes at last, and dreams of the open road, Hadrian's Wall behind him, and life ahead of him.
> 
> What kind of life, he's not sure. A lonely one, an empty one? One filled with guilt, for leaving his friend behind? One solitary and pointless, filled with the memory of her eyes?
> 
> He shivers slightly in his sleep, and dreams no more.
> 
> Fin.


End file.
